


Genius Aurae

by radondoran



Category: The Whistler (Radio Show)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-29
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-06 17:33:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1866402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radondoran/pseuds/radondoran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Signal, the famous go-farther gasoline, invites you to stay tuned for the Whistler's strange story of—<em>[RECORD SKIPS]</em>—the Whistler's strange story of—the Whistler's strange story of—</p>
            </blockquote>





	Genius Aurae

**Author's Note:**

  * For [APgeeksout](https://archiveofourown.org/users/APgeeksout/gifts).



I, the Whistler, know many things, for I walk by night. I know many strange tales hidden in the hearts of men and women who have stepped into the shadows. And so tonight I bring you the weird story of "Genius Aurae."

Massaroli's wasn't the largest bar on Twenty-Fifth Street, nor the most fashionable, but then those men and women who frequented it weren't looking for those things. Whatever their walk of life, whatever their peculiar circumstances, they would come down the seven steps from the street and find a place where they could have a drink and sit quietly, rest half-hidden in the halogen dim as gaslight that streamed from the coal-dingy retrofitted fixtures. For the building itself was old; not old like those cold monuments of revolution in the East, or their decrepit ancestors across the sea, but anonymously old, and the older because anonymous. Not so long ago Massaroli's had been a speakeasy, before that a suite of offices, before that a tenement-house... There was something comforting in taking refuge where so many people with their own struggles had come before. At least, that was how Clara Massaroli always thought of it, and she and her father lived upstairs.

"Another Scotch?"

"My dear Clara, you anticipate my every need." That's Augustus Murray, a regular customer. He's been telling a story; so many of the people who come here have stories to tell. "Thank you kindly." He samples it, smacks his lips, and then says, "Now where was I?"

"Your hands were on the very file that could damn or save him..." That's the bartender, listening to the tale with a glass and a dishrag in his hands. Oh—his name? It isn't important to the story.

"That's right! So there I was..."

Go ahead and move on, Clara. The bartender will keep Mr. Murray entertained for you. You smile to see how raptly he listens to the old man. He's a funny fellow, isn't he? Such an affinity for tales of the strange and unusual. It's as if after working so long in this shadowy place, he has breathed in the atmosphere thick with stories until it is inextricable from his own being. You pour new drinks for the other three customers, and then slip into the office to check in on the proprietor.

"Hi, Dad."

"Hello, honey. How's business?"

"Not bad for this late on a weeknight."

"Good, good..." He clears his throat, as if uncertain about something he wants to say to you.

"What is it? Dad, what're all these papers? Is this the real estate listings?"

"I am trying to find a new home for us. I would value your opinion."

"New—you don't mean you agreed to sell?"

"Agreed? Not formally. But I have decided."

"But why? We're still turning a profit, and I can do all the work of running the place, you know I'm capable."

"I can think of no one more capable than you. But it is... time to try our luck somewhere else."

"What's wrong with right here?"

"This isn't a good neighborhood anymore. All our neighbors sold and moved on months ago; we're the only ones left, you know. Besides, with the accidents, and the trumped-up fines.... Certain parties are making it very difficult to own this place."

"That's just why we've got to stay! You can't let them bully you!"

He laughs. "They did not ask my permission. Clara, I know working here has been important to you, but this is not the end. We have some money, and we'll be together—there's time to start a new life."

"I know. I know, but Dad, it's not just about the bar—it's—they're gonna tear these buildings down!"

He says lightly, "That's progress."

"But they can't tear this place down! I was practically just a kid when we moved here, and I've spent so much time exploring... This building is full of history. Think of how much would be lost if it's just demolished! If these walls could talk, think of the stories they'd tell."

He sighs. "I have thought of it. Clara, I think... if there is anything here that you still need to explore, you should do so quickly."

There's nothing you can say to change his mind. And you know that really, you can't be angry with your father. It's a wonder that he has stuck it out this long. But you are angry, aren't you, Clara? Angry at "progress", angry at the men who are buying out your father, angry at the corruption that's allowing this to happen. And angry with yourself, too, for caring so much about a mere place.

You re-enter the bar and head towards the stairs. Murray is sitting alone now, and the bartender is some few yards away, whistling to himself as he sweeps under an empty table. He catches your eye and comes to speak to you in an enthusiastic undertone:

"Oh, Clara, you should have heard what Mr. Murray was telling me. I'll tell you about it later—it happened when he suspected somebody was embezzling money fr—"

"Shut up." You don't want to hear it, Clara. Not tonight.

"But Clara—I thought you liked my stories."

"They aren't your stories!" you counter, with sudden heat. "They're other people's stories. The way you get such a kick out of other people's misfortune—it's ghoulish!"

"Why, this isn't a tale of misfortune at all! Mr Murray was very clever—"

"That's what you said last week about a murderer. Just leave me alone!"

 

You leave the bar for your room, the room you've lived in for years. For you know not how long you lose yourself in contemplating every detail. You gaze at every scratch on the old wood, every stain, knowing you will never know who put them there or how. Then your thoughts are interrupted by a sudden, loud gunshot.

You run down the stairs. The bar is a-murmur with confusion. You push past the people uncertainly half-standing, and throw open the office door. And then, even though you know with a horrible certainty what you will discover, you scream.

 

It's an hour later. The police have everyone outside, to search and question them. So far nobody seems to know anything. Especially, you notice, one spectator who, rather than waiting to be sent home, is trying to get closer to the crime scene.

"What am I doing here?" he's saying. "I don't—officer, is this Massaroli's Bar?"

"Uh-huh. Hey, stop right there. There's nothing to see here. Move along."

"No, you have to let me through! I should be inside—I work here!"

"Ain't nobody worked here but the dead man and his daughter."

"Dead...?" Then he sees you. "Clara! It's me, Clara!"

But you don't know this gawker, do you, Clara?

"Tell them to let me through!"

"You know this man, miss?" asks the detective at your elbow.

"No," you say quietly. "Please tell everyone to go away."

"Tell them it's me, Clara! Tell them I work at Massaroli's!"

And now your voice rises in a bitter shout across the crowd at him: "There isn't any more Massaroli's!"

The gawker ceases his struggles. Pauses there. Falls back, melts into the crowd.

"Sorry about that, miss," says the detective. "Come along with me now." And that was when you turned your back on that old building forever.

But I wonder, Clara, if you ever knew what else happened that night.

Augustus Murray is still there. When the detectives finally determine that he, like everybody else, has no idea as to the identity of the shooter, he sets off on his walk home.

That gawker, that unremarkable fellow, watches him intensely. Then follows him, as if compelled. It is two blocks before Murray abruptly turns to notice him.

"Do I know you?"

"I know you, Augustus. And I know you didn't give me the whole story."

"What are you talking about?

"How did you know that Jensen was cooking the books, Augustus? You had your eyes open because you had to cover your own tracks."

"You damn drunk, you're talking nonsense."

"I know. I can see it all hidden—here."

"What are you doing—"

There is a soft thump as Murray crumples to the ground.

 

Mr. Peter Kendall fought back a yawn as he guided the Packard down another straight and featureless stretch of road. In the cloudy darkness every lonely highway looked the same, and it was hard for him to think of this as a journey. Yes, he had left his home and was traveling halfway across the country—but for what? Another advertising job—another office to sit in and sing the praises of products he couldn't care less about. That destination made the cross-country drive feel like so much more routine, and he had taken to driving on late into the nights, the sooner to have it over with.

As his tired mind drifted in the quiet monotony of the plains, he began to hope that he would at least see something interesting on the drive, some little unusual incident he could use as a conversation-starter with his new colleagues. Once on his way back from college he'd picked up a couple of hitch-hikers; it wasn't quite the Odyssey, but it was something—Look out, Peter!

The car screeches to a halt, jostling heavily as it leaves the curb for the dry desert. The driver-side door slams open.

"Damn!"

You wanted something interesting, didn't you, Peter? But it would be so gauche to introduce yourself by describing how you ran a man over.

Then you see him, a figure standing upright, washed out in the glare of your headlights.

"Damn it, I didn't see you!"

"You didn't touch me, either."

The quiet, straightforward response calms your agitated nerves. "Oh. Good. But listen, what do you think you're doing, walking down the middle of the highway this late at night? It's not safe!"

"No," he agrees.

"Say, fella, what's the matter with you? You're as pale as a ghost. You sure you're not hurt?"

"Yes—"

"Hey!"

He staggers, and as you catch him by the shoulders you are struck by how insubstantial his weight feels. You walk him back to your car and throw open the passenger-side door.

"Get in. Let me give you a lift someplace—I'll get us some coffee, and you can tell me your story."

 

An hour later the hitch-hiker sits across from you in a booth at a tiny late-night diner attached to a run-down roadside hotel. You've supplemented your offer of coffee with a full hot breakfast, but to your surprise he's hardly touched it, so engaged is he in keeping up his side of your little bargain.

"... You see, Murray said he had changed. And he had," he finishes dramatically. "Well, there's my story. How was that?"

"Well—it was swell, but I'm a little confused—I mean, uh, that story wasn't about you."

"No, but it's mine."

You laugh at that. "I guess you're feeling better."

"Yes; thank you. If you hadn't come along when you did..."

"Just happy I could help. Where are you headed?"

You're not sure at first if he's heard you. Slowly he says, "I wonder what kind of people come to a place like this."

"Well, uh," you continue, "if you're going west, I can take you as far as Los Angeles."

"Thank you, but—you've done so much already, I wouldn't want to be—"

"It's no trouble! You'd be the one doing me a favor—I could use someone to keep me awake on the long drive. I wouldn't mind hearing another one of your stories."

"All right."

 

The two of you stay in the motel and plan to continue west the next morning. It's a double room, isn't it? Of course the hitch-hiker pays his half, it only makes sense. He must have some money; if he were completely destitute, you'd remember that, wouldn't you? In fact when you try to look back on this trip later you'll find yourself a little vague on the question of money. These are such unimportant details.

Early next morning the door to your room opens and shuts.

"Oh, good morning!" you say. "You were certainly up bright and early—I like that in a traveling companion."

"Yes, I thought I'd go for a walk before we started. Are you ready to depart?"

You snap shut the catch on your suitcase. "Sure thing. I'm not much for breakfast, do you want anything?"

"No, I am of your mind there."

You pick up your bag and check out. As the car doors shut behind you, you suddenly think of something.

"You know it's funny, I don't think you ever told me your name."

"I didn't." There's that matter-of-factness again. You pull out onto the highway and think no more of it. It's not important.

"Did you mean it?" the hitch-hiker asks. "That you want a story?"

"Why, yes!"

"All right. 'Patsy Radcliff lit her last half-crumpled cigarette and looked again at the clock. Michael should have...."

You enjoy that stretch of road, don't you, Peter? At last you're having a good time on your journey. And so the miles roll past, past one town...

"... one way to claim your inheritance..."

... and another...

"... as the solemn, hooded figure glided across the lawn..."

... and another...

"... didn't know about her twin sister..."

... and finally into Los Angeles.

The car pulls to a stop. A light rain patters on the windshield.

You peer outside. "Well, it says Vacancy—that, or more of the letters have fallen off then I thought."

"This place is perfect for me. Thank you. For everything."

"Take care."

 

The door shuts behind him, and now it's time to return to return to your own concerns, to settle back into another dull routine. You find everything in order at your new apartment; you buy some groceries; and come Monday morning you report to the ad agency.

And then, later that week, you do hear something of interest.

"It all sounds great," Mr. Culverton is saying. "I just hope they give us something good to attach it to. They're up to their ears looking for radio entertainment. Plays, stories... something that'll stand out, something a little unusual. Nobody's gonna hear our ads if we don't give ‘em something they want to listen to."

You look up at him. Unusual stories? Something people will want to listen to? No, you can't be thinking of... It's a wild idea, Peter. Are you sure you want to bring it up, you being so new around here? And yet the idea captivates you, fascinates you; _he_ fascinates you and you can't help seizing this excuse to see him—that is, hear him, again.

You hear yourself saying, "It's a long shot, sir, but I think I've met someone you might want to talk to."

 

In the shadowy lobby of the Starlight Hotel, you realize that chances are the hitch-hiker hasn't remained here. You wonder if it would do any good to ask the desk clerk...

"Hello, Peter."

You spin towards the familiar voice. "You startled me! I didn't see you." With a laugh, you add, "Must have mistaken you for the bellboy."

"Mm-hm."

"Uh, anyway,"—you clear your throat—"I came here looking for you. Listen, my company's interested in stories, unusual stories—you know, for the radio—and I thought, I know just the guy."

"That is interesting."

"I can't promise anything, but it can't hurt to talk to ‘em, right?"

"Yes, tell your friends that it would be my pleasure to bring them a strange story."

 

Mr. Culverton must have confidence in you—or he must be ready to have a good laugh at your expense, because he's invited you and the storyteller to join him and three heads of other departments at their usual lunch outing. You're nervous now, Peter. What were you thinking, putting your career in the hands of someone you've hardly met? Yet you're sure your instinct is right, that he is fascinating. You just hope your superiors see things the same way.

"Geoffrey Nolan looked again in the rearview mirror, and, seeing no sign of his wife's car...."

You had been afraid he would prove shy, put on the spot like this, but in fact he seems to gain confidence as his tale continues. Soon everyone at your table (and one young lady at the next table) is listening with rapt attention. As he comes to a close you can tell that he has made a good impression. As have you.

Culverton says quietly to you, "Good call, Peter."

Mr. Hurwood, meanwhile, shakes the hand of the storyteller. "There's my card. Come see me this afternoon and we can talk about using that talent."

"Thank you, sir." As he walks off you can hear him gaily whistling.

 

It's a year later, and this time you're traveling for pleasure, taking time to visit forgotten locales. As you're driving east, you notice something familiar about a certain diner, and you stop there for lunch.

"Ah, this coffee's as good as I remember!"

"You don't look like a regular," the proprietor remarks.

"Ha, not exactly. I stayed here one night last July. I had a hitch-hiker with me."

"Can't say as I remember—so many travelers come through here. Say, though, last July—I wonder if you met Patsy."

That stirs a faint chord of recognition for you. "Patsy?"

"She was a waitress here. Just up and left last July. I was sorry to lose her, she was one of my best workers."

"She... smoked, didn't she?" you ask, slowly.

"Ah, so you did talk to her!"

"I... must have." But you don't think you did. "Yes, and... she was being blackmailed, about how sh—"

He interrupts: "Who told you that?!"

"Oh! Uh—sorry. I must have been thinking of someone else."

You pay your check and move on. You don't think about it. But on the way back, you can't help but take familiar roads, stop at familiar stations... and just casually, mention half-remembered stories. And it is familiar, to a station attendant...

"... thought she could fool the old man..."

... a motel janitor...

"... scared out of his wits..."

... a waiter... 

"... thought I'd never see her again..."

By the time you return you feel you must talk to the hitch-hiker. The storyteller. The—Whistler, yes. You make phone calls, but nobody can tell you anything. Does he have an office? Where does he live? Doesn't the man have a name? It isn't important, they tell you. That guy—he probably works here, they've seen him around. When? Where? Just around. It only makes sense that he'd work around here, doesn't it?

You soon realize that asking for definite information on this storyteller is hopeless. You yourself couldn't provide any, now that you think about it. But you never thought about it.

You can't trace the storyteller, so you trace the stories. The only way to satisfy your curiosity is to be in the recording booth.

That's right. You already know this story, don't you, Peter?

You feel a sudden chill at the words. "This... story?"

Yes.

And now your voice rises in anger. "I should've known! This has all been one of your damn stories! I'm just a character to you—that's why all of that happened, that's why I brought you here! You set me up!"

Now, Peter. Don't be half right. If I could do that, I wouldn't need to search the shadows for people like you. When you came here I wanted the strange story hidden in your heart—even if this one involves me, do you really think it would change just because I have it?

"You... have it?"

Uncross your arms, Peter. This isn't when I took it.

"That first night...?—but it's been over a year!"

You misunderstand me. This isn't when I took it. I don't want it until it's finished. What good is a strange story without a strange _denouement_?

Yes, the denouement. The summing-up. I always like this part.

Technology is a wonderful thing, isn't it, Peter? When we met I was nothing. A pathetic genius loci without a locus. ‘If these walls could talk'... Ha. _Walls_.

I would simply have faded away, you know. You revived me. Not with coffee, though I do appreciate the kindness—you came along with your boredom—your curiosity—your scandal-hungry ears. Thanks to you, I have an inexhaustible supply of stories, and of people to hear them. I am in thousands of homes. I walk by night, farther abroad than I thought would ever be possible. Yes, Peter. You have given me power. You have made me unstoppable.

"You used me," you repeat, but without conviction.

You still don't understand, do you, Peter? You are the author of this story, my story that I've brought you. I didn't force you to find me an audience. I had nearly settled in at the Starlight. And I didn't force you to finish the story, either. Why did you stop at that diner again? I know the coffee was terrible. It was romanticism that brought you back. The same force that made you continue your investigation. The same force that sustains beings like me.

You can hear me wrapping up, can't you, Peter? You know time is running out on our denouement. And yet there is one question I haven't answered yet—one question that suddenly burns in your chest.

"What happens—after?" you say in a strangled voice, looking desperately around the tiny booth for a place to hide, you know not how. "When you—take—a story? What happens to the—the character in the story, when you're done with him?"

Don't worry about that, Peter. It's not important to the story.

* * *

Next week, same time, I the Whistler will bring you another strange tale. Good night.


End file.
